Fire Fades when Forgotten

            If he were a falcon, he would soar away on those perfect sharp wings. If he were rat, he would scurry through the closest hole he could find and lose himself in labyrinths no one can see. If he were a shark, he would thrash and tear with jagged teeth until some poor soul ended his misery. But he is not any of these things.

            He has forgotten.

            And he cannot escape.

            Where he is, only those outside know. What they want, same story. And his name has vanished long ago. He wrote it once, scratched it into the floor for safekeeping. Only to see it covered under layers and layers of dried blood. Some his. Some...whatever else they put in here. Darkness hides most things, the ones too terrible for the light to shine upon. When they come, darkness follows, blood right on its heels. How many times has he lived it? Only those outside know.

            They watch him. So closely they watch his life leak from open wounds, his fitful attempts to close tired eyes for sleep, and the spectacle of him trying to think. Oh, that elusive concept: 'thinking.' Harder and harder it becomes. To dig into that useless brain and pull something out. Anything. Maybe a memory. Or what he believes is a memory. But they're painful. Complex. Burning of a thousand colors locked in endless war. Nightmares too real to remember. Thinking might get him killed.

            He's survived so far with just instinct. Run. Dodge. Punch. Bite. Kick. Eat. Shit. He doesn't forget these. They coat the walls of a retreating mind. Why take up more space than needed?

            Those outside are before him. They are shapeless forms black on a horizon of white light. They do not move. Only talk.

            “Fires eat so they can burn. Fires burn so they must eat.”

            “This fire eats and eats. Still eating. Always eating.”

            “He burns strong.”

            He curls up, hiding in shadows. Eyes were not meant to look upon them. They would rip into him like the monsters they bring.

            “Leave!” he cries. It is always strange to hear a real voice. Even his.

            They do not have real voices.

            “This fire wants to be an inferno. Wants to light the darkness with flames.”

            “He is just a spark.”

            “The smallest spark may cause the greatest blaze.”

            “But a blaze cannot be. This fire will fade, into little fingers of smoke. They all fade.”

            Darkness covers him in soothing blankets. Those outside are gone again, vanished from his crypt. Only dots of pale light flicker in this place. He has learned to see in the emptiness. He doesn't want to see more. That would mean more memory, more thinking. Why take up more space than needed?

            New blood always paints the floor. The wet, warm feeling on his feet, between his toes. Only thing left by the monsters. Always disappearing. Or taken away. He is weaker now. So very tired. Even the darkness doesn't seem dark enough anymore. He can see the blood reflecting shadows. How can he see so much now? Fading. The fire is leaving. Fading to black.

            Those outside are before him. He doesn't look away. The light bathes him in pain, but those outside sing wonderful darkness. Calling him in. Escape from it all.

            “This fire is flickering.”

            “Soon he will be smoke.”

            He nods, reaching out for guidance. They will keep him safe in their void.

            Blood splashes underfoot. He looks down. No shadows live in this reflection. Only him. His face. Skin and hair. Eyes, ears, nose, mouth, everything. So long since he's seen himself. He remembers what he was. What he is. Falling to the ground, gazing at the wonder forgotten so long ago. Brought back, only through the light.

            Those outside stir, “This fire...he grows.”

            He looks back at them. Their hideous shapes tainting the light around them. Disgusting darkness squirming. Thrashing. Trapped.

            “This fire! He burns!”

            “He was smoke! He should have faded!”

            He stands back up, letting light wash over him. Cleansing him. He can see everything. Everything he'd lost. His body. His actions. His thoughts. And they are glorious.

            Those once outside are now in. They cannot escape. And they scream, fading far away.

Lost

There used to be stars. Somewhere up in darkness they burned once upon a time. Lighting the way ever so clearly. All I had to do was pick one, follow it with the greatest care, and a safe new home was sure to be at the end. That’s how it should be, isn’t it? At least that’s what I assumed. What I hoped. Perhaps that was my first mistake. Or my last. Putting faith in something so insubstantial as light. Fool’s hope they should call it. Who can tell anymore? The shadows cover every area of perception with meticulous obscurity. The dark outside is absolute. An emptiness that cannot be filled yet I want desperately to be complete, a whole that is broken beyond repair. There is no visible way to go. All paths lay hidden and the shadows swallow everything until the only thing recognizable anymore is that I am lost. My worst nightmare, come to soothe me. I don’t think it will disappear. Too absolute in form, to clear in meaning, too sure in existence. It cannot be filled. That’s the nature of voids. Always eating, never filling, always hungry, never full, never to be stopped. Eating through the last bits left of being, the only things I still hold onto and still it slips away with the greatest of ease, the worst of ease. There is nothing to grasp, nothing to hold onto, nothing to keep me here. 

Perfection

           What would mangled decrepit hands sculpt if not perfection? Feel what they aren’t, see what they aren’t, imagine what they aren’t. They are bored. Itching in vast blackness for something to hold. Curl and writhe to build. An image fills the veins with motion and they move without abandon, heed, or pause.

From coarse crumbling fingers infested with pain is born a sphere of pure blinding light. It sings unending notes to make the stars cry and the earth laugh, carried by the whiteness streaming from its body. Darkness disappears entirely, shrinking back beyond perception. The hands flail up, desperate to hide their shrieking face from the sphere's beauty. Nothing hated itself more than the hands. To see themselves in utter illumination, and to be seen by something so perfect that stone itself would shatter in shame; unbearable. The hands thrash out, clawing and beating its creation until falling to the ground, perfection shattered and was swallowed by the jealous shadows.

            Safe in darkness, the hands soon grow restless again. What do they want now? Not perfection. That shows too much. Something less. Something worse.

            Hands are back to working. More careful this time, so another flawless beauty doesn’t arise. Now the form more resembles the bearer of the hands, detailed contours on limbs, torso, and face. Skin smooth as wax, free of the malicious decay infecting the hands molding it. A warm glow emanates from its surface, a light that shines but doesn’t burn through the darkness.

            It stirs, graceful as running water. Stretches its limbs, opens its mouth. Words lovely as poetry, perfect in tone and precise in choice come out. The hands watch outside the cloud of light and admire the beauty they have crafted.

            “What is this?” the form looks around at the blackness surrounding it.

            Rasping out of lips painted with blood housing hanging dead teeth, “Home.”

            The form squirms at the sound, searching for its source. It moves towards the hands, bringing the light along. The hands try and retreat, but the glow moves too quickly and soon they are exposed from the shadow’s safety. Shuddering in their own presence, the hands go rigid and contort more. The form sees them and shrinks back in terror, bringing darkness back over the hands.

            “Why do you fear?” the hands trying to reassure.

            “I saw you,” it whispers, “Your form. Different. So different than mine.”

            “Different but the same. Ours are similar, shape and figure.”

            “No,” it cries, trying to flee further away.

            “Don’t be afraid,” the hands try to reassure, risking the light to reach out and comfort the form.

             It shrieks at their approach. When hands get near, shrieking becomes a wail, and when skin meets skin, the form slowly melts into a puddle of glowing muck that falls between shaking fingers. The light stains the wretched skin, filling the hands with fury.

            They fling the remains off into the darkness, the light sailing above until it disappears in the distant. The hands are angry, even hidden again in black. What is left? What will shine in the shadows that will not flee from the hands? What will burn but not force the light to overwhelm the emptiness surrounding it? The hands thrash, they tear, they rip, they gash chunks of skin from their form into fleshy blood-soaked piles on the ground. They’re just bored.

            But then, something stirs below the hands. So very faint and so very covered in darkness. Not a sliver of light is visible, but still a form moves somewhere down there. The hands can’t see it, no matter how hard they try.

            “What is this?” a whisper comes from beneath.

            The hands do not answer, overcome with wonder. What is down there? What has been born without their knowledge?

            “Why is there only darkness?’ the whisper continues.

            The hands move close and fingers graze over the source. They recognize their own skin, repugnant and vile. The hands shiver. But then they recognize the form it has taken. It echoes their own, like a reflection in water. Distorted in horrific ways, but similar all the same. Barely a motion comes from the form as fingers brush against it. It isn’t afraid. Why would it be? It cannot see the hands. It cannot distinguish between itself and the thing that touches it. They could almost be one and the same.

             The hands tremble, but not from rage or panic. Now, joy fills their veins as they wrap around the form and draw it near.

            “I am here,” the hands comfort.

            “I cannot see,” the form answers, “When will the darkness go away?”

            “Quiet now, little one. I will be here for you in the dark.”

            And then, tiny little fingers gently touched then clung to the hands’ own fingers. The form between them hung on tightly, like a child to its mother. Blackness covered it all absolutely. Not a movement could be seen, not a shape discerned.

            The hands shuddered at the thought of it otherwise.